


Disastrophe (looking like that, make a blind man stare)

by kaboomslang



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bad Flirting, Blow Jobs, Hair Kink, M/M, Mid-coital bickering, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Post-Battle of Scarif, Rimming, baze has a ponytail and everyone on base thinks he's just dreamy, chirrut has sensory issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10979322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaboomslang/pseuds/kaboomslang
Summary: Based on a tumblr post.After Scarif, Baze and Chirrut and the rest of the rogues have settled into life on Yavin IV. Baze underestimates his own sex appeal, and Chirrut continues to be the most frustrating husband in the star system. Those two facts are totally not at all correlated.Or: The Ponytail Kink/Disciplinary Blowjob Fic





	Disastrophe (looking like that, make a blind man stare)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [tumblr post](http://bottombobbysinger.tumblr.com/post/156881640271/a-concept-when-they-are-alone-and-a-hairtie-comes) from [BobbyZinger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BobbyZinger): "A concept: When they are alone and a hairtie comes out, Chirrut knows he’s T-2 minutes to a spectacular blowjob. Pavlovian response makes it very awkward when Baze has to tie up his hair in front of people."
> 
> title comes slightly adapted from the song [Feisty by Jhameel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyOokSwOBRE) which i believe is classified as a thirst song and is totally what goes through Chirrut's mind around Baze
> 
> thank you to [Michaela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela) for looking it over!! <3

Baze knew he was not a boastful man. It wasn't in his nature, and he had been told enough times over the years that his stature and demeanor were enough to do the talking for him.

It suited him fine; better for your enemies to underestimate you, a lesson he had had marginal success in teaching Chirrut, though the man still had a flashbulb behind those glacial eyes that sparked and popped at the most inopportune times, as if to capture his moments of brilliance for bragging fodder later on, to Baze, his captive audience.

Baze also knew he was not a modest man either, except in the ways that mattered. They lived modestly, first by choice and then by necessity, but he knew his personal capabilities and there was no point being coy about his skillset when it meant the difference between the next paycheck or spartan rations for another month.

The point was, Baze knew with the certainty of a hammer striking anvil that he was a more than capable mechanic. But even he couldn't figure out what the _fuck_ they'd done to this X-wing.

Sweat trickled into his eye, and his litany of cursing pitched even louder as the uncovered wire he was soldering slipped maliciously under his nail to stab at the soft quick. He stuck his finger in his mouth and immediately regretted it, because engine grease ranked somewhere between dirt, and Chirrut's one and only attempt at couscous (also mostly dirt) on his list of tastes he never wanted anywhere near his tongue. Baze glared up at the exposed panel above him, the ship's metal belly split open and its mechanical guts spilled more messily than a new acolyte's the morning after Dewnight Festival on Jedha. Baze glared, and hoped his frustration would ricochet off from all the metal, bounce through the hangar's din and into the pilot's head, wherever they were, and make them feel bad. Let them know how _disappointed_ he was.

It wasn't as if the Alliance could exactly afford to replace them. What in the stars had they been doing on the latest mission to wreck it so thoroughly both on the outside and internally? He hadn't seen engine damage like this since Chirrut and some of their Chirrut-enabling friends had convinced him to mod the temple's sole, ancient AgriSpeeder with rocket propulsors and let them hurtle it off the edge of the mesa.

Baze chuckled at the memory, glad to find that he finally could. He whacked a battered rotor with the spanner he was holding, and swore again when a heavy lugnut came loose and hit him in the face.

Either the pilot was incredibly skilled or incredibly lucky to even make the thing fly, let alone return alive. He had grumbled as much to Chirrut, who had taken the opportunity to voice his strident opinion on luck and the fact that it didn't exist and all the different marvellous ways the Force worked. Once, Baze would have been inclined to agree with him, and then later his inclinations were to argue the point until they were both flushed and gesticulating. Now though, Baze had simply let him ramble without complaint or interjection, fondly watched him take the bait and carry himself off into misting clouds of magic words that condensed and rained on anyone who came close enough to hear Chirrut rhapsodise, and be enraptured.

Baze would _ask_ what the mission had entailed, what kind of firepower they had encountered, what kind of atmospheric conditions might have chewed up an A-class X-wing to digested metal pulp, but either the information was classified, or the Alliance might do well to take a lesson from the Empire on organisation. It wasn't as if he could even ask Bodhi, seeing as his prosthetic was still fresh and he wasn't cleared for flying yet.

Baze shifted awkwardly on his roller and peered out from under the ship's carcass, squinting for Bodhi's willowy dark figure among the sea of bright orange jumpsuits. There, by the circular smuggling vessel, he spotted Bodhi chatting animatedly to the pilot (the _Jedi,_ his mind supplied, and even after all the years of disillusionment that word and its implication still tingled his arm hair to attention) Luke Skywalker, and he grinned. He would always recognise that particular look on a young man's face, having been on the receiving end of it for most of his life.

Two pairs of boots came to a stop beside his legs to obstruct his view, and he frowned. The communal spirit of the hangar's clattering chaos and the soothing lilt of Chirrut's mantra from somewhere above him were broken by a terse throat clearing, so Baze grabbed his oil rag and wheeled himself out from under the fighter.

The rag was already grimy enough from Baze’s hands that he considered it for a slightly longer cursory moment than usual as he struggled up from the board he’d been lying on, before mentally shrugging and wiping down his face. As he lowered the cloth he was surprised to find his interrupters were only pilots, not the officials or safety personnel he was quickly coming to know on a first-name basis. One was a human female roughly Jyn’s age and almost Baze’s height, with dark hair spiking around her ears and a wide and sharply handsome face. The other was of a species Baze had never seen before, humanoid but covered in sleek brown fur, with tufted ears on top of their head. They looked entirely less sure of themselves than their companion.

Baze scratched his ear, and waited.

The tall woman’s confident smile slipped at his silence, but she gathered herself and cocked a hip, leaning against the fighter’s hull.

“Hey there,” she said, sticking her hand out. Baze shook it once, conscious of the dirty smear his fingers left on her palm. The woman curled the hand into a loose fist around it. “I’m Prishav, this is Jax.”

Jax lifted one paw in a shy wave, and Baze nodded. He looked between them but nothing else seemed forthcoming, so he supplied, “I’m Baze.”

“Oh, we know,” Prishav laughed, touching Baze’s forearm lightly through his suit. He stared at it, but her hand didn’t move.

“You do?”

“Of course!”

“Huh.” Baze shifted his weight and smiled gamely at them both, hoping to move whatever this was along.

He almost didn’t hear it over Chirrut’s chanting and the screech of a buzzsaw through metal when Jax piped up softly, “We wondered i-if we could talk to you.”

“Oh,” said Baze.

He twisted to peer up at Chirrut, still perched on one of the fighter’s wings where Baze had left him, coiled into the lotus position. He made a faintly ridiculous, yet uncanny and unapproachable picture, hands clasped over his staff and swathed in new silky robes. Red and with a plunging neckline, the sleeves only caressing the lines of his elbows, it was embroidered in the kind of eye-wateringly loud pattern that had Baze suspecting he’d obtained it from some kind of travelling theatre troupe. To top it all off he was still wearing the industrial earmuffs and protective goggles Baze had forced on him, not without difficulty.

( _"I_ _t may have escaped your notice,” Chirrut said with a reproving look, “but it’s a few years too late to be worrying about these.” He let the goggles dangle by the strap, and Baze sighed._

_“There are welders, Chirrut, sparks and shrapnel everywhere, and a Wookiee with a crossbow to your left. A bad combination, you know as well as I do.”_

_He ducked closer, and Chirrut tilted to him immediately, still looking unimpressed._

_“You insist on staying in here, so I insist you should be safe,” Baze murmured, glad of the privacy their shared language provided._

_“I wish to be near you,” said Chirrut without hesitation._

_It was the only reason that made sense, Baze at least could see that. Chirrut either preferred total silence or an impenetrable wall of harsh noise for meditation. It soothed and cleared his mind, he said, and was the reason for his frequent smuggling of spacedeath discs into their holodeck in the temple dorms. It relaxed him, as much as it grated on everyone else._

_But this noise, this type of varied commotion and machinery, shouts in all kinds of dialects only set Chirrut on edge. It was overwhelming for him. Baze knew, had knitted him enough earmuffs through the years when Jedha’s chorused wailing proved too much stimulation._

_“Then please don’t say I worry too much,” said Baze, heading off Chirrut’s next complaint._

_Chirrut’s gaze snapped back to him. “I wasn’t going to,” he countered softly, still holding the goggles at arm’s length like they smelled bad. “But honestly_ _—_ _”_

_“Please, for my nerves.” Baze looked surreptitiously around for anyone who might overhear, or somehow understand Jedhan, and decided to play dirty. “Please, chickadee.”_

_A silly smile melted over Chirrut’s face and he smacked Baze in the shin with his staff. “Unfair,” he smirked, and pulled the goggles on before heaving himself onto the X-wing in one fluid motion._ )

Chirrut’s eyes were still closed behind his goggles, his mantra still flowing louder than usual because of the headphones. Baze turned back to the pilots and jerked a thumb at his husband.

“He is meditating.”

Prishav barely even glanced at Chirrut, her slate-grey eyes fixated on Baze. “That’s alright,” she said quickly, “it’s you we wanted to talk to.”

Nobody ever wanted to talk to Baze. They talked to Chirrut, and made great efforts to avoid Baze’s steady staring.

“Oh,” Baze said again, feeling at a loss. “What about?”

Prishav’s hand on Baze’s arm squeezed and released him slower than Baze was entirely comfortable with, trailing along his sleeve before patting the ship’s battered, scorched nose. She gave a languid shrug and grinned conspiratorially up at Baze.

“This here? This is my baby you’re working over.” Jax gave Prishav a pointed look, and a complicated yet unsubtle gesture, and Prishav rolled her eyes.

“Our baby. Jax is my navigator,” she stage whispered to Baze, who wished very much that Chirrut wasn’t busy.

Still, at least he had found the culprit. He coughed and looked between the pair of them.

“This ship is…”

He searched for the right words in Basic that would convey the extent to which the vessel’s condition had shifted his entire worldview on aeronautics, and the kind of carnage it was possible to wreak upon them and stay airborne. If he hadn’t been snatched from the jaws of death himself not too long ago, he might have been moved to tears by the miracle of it.

‘Completely fucked’ didn’t quite cut it though, somehow.

“Very damaged,” he settled on.

Prishav only laughed, throwing her head back and baring her pale throat. “Yeah, I guess I rode her pretty hard. Not many people in the fleet could pull off what we did. You can fix her though, right? If anyone can, it’s you.”

“Uh,” said Baze.

He looked at Jax, who was staring up at him now with stars, no, whole constellations in their eyes. Was it getting warm? Yavin IV was very warm compared to Jedha, as Chirrut often complained.

Baze shrugged out of his sleeves and rolled down the top half of his new jumpsuit, glad for something to look at besides Prishav’s searching look, inching closer towards him. He froze in the midst of self-consciously smoothing down his sweaty tank at the sound of a muffled squeak. Jax’ luminous green eyes were flitting frantic between Baze’s shoulders and the ground, their tail whipping back and forth.

He turned back to Prishav, sweat prickling the back of his neck.

“I—thank you,” he ventured. “I can only do my best.” He made an awkward move back towards his tools, but Prishav’s hand caught his arm again.

“Believe me, your best is more than enough,” she said, a low tendril of smoky inflection in her voice that made Baze nervous. There wasn’t much in the galaxy that made Baze nervous. “I know how good you are with your hands, I’ve watched you work the equipment. I’ve seen your gun.”

And then, Force save him—she winked.

Oh, gods. Chirrut had often accused Baze of being far too oblivious for someone so smart, and fair enough, in their youth it had practically taken a public declaration for him to figure out Chirrut’s intentions. But he was older, now. He wasn’t an old man, though sometimes his knees begged to differ, but he was old enough to know when he was being flirted with. Just, it had been a long time since anyone besides Chirrut had done any flirting.

And now he was lost, his mind clogged to a standstill over just how to tell two people young enough to be his _children_ that he was happily married to a gorgeous riddle, a hurricane draped in silk, exerting brute force under the guise of elegance. Who was still chanting, oblivious. Damn him.

Prishav and Jax had him cornered against the X-wing’s hull in some kind of pincer movement. He wondered if they’d planned this.

“We should grab a drink, or just get to know each other better sometime. Since you are doing my bodywork all day. Tell me,” Prishav purred, her eyes lingering on Baze’s mouth. “What do you do for fun, Baze Malbus?”

Baze was a good Jedha boy. His mothers raised him upright, bound to a stake called respect, but Jedhans had little time for small talk or wrapping the point up in wordy padding. Even the gossip train was blunt and barging, which may have accounted for all the city’s infighting. And then there was the fact that Baze’s Basic was more than rusty, crumbling to bits and pieces after years of speaking only Jedhan to Chirrut and their resistance friends. Caught like this, he floundered for words.

“I… fix droids, the ships, anything. Read. Help resupplies sometimes. I spar. We spar,” he said gruffly, nodding up at Chirrut. “I should get back to—”

He noticed a glance spared between the two of them, and before he could react, Jax stepped one boot on his roller and skidded it away to clatter into his tools, tripping conveniently into Baze’s chest.

He caught them, of course. He wasn’t an asshole.

“Are you alright, little one?”

He set them back on two feet before they could rub their furry face into his collarbones. The pilot didn’t reply, but for a high giggle.

“Oops,” said Prishav, smirking at him. She was ruffling the back of her hair, and Baze could swear her flightsuit wasn’t unzipped so far a moment ago. “You must spar a lot, you’re so strong.”

Baze shrugged and gazed forlornly over at his wrenches, all scattered out of order now. He really hated being interrupted while he was working, even Chirrut had beaten down the habit. Still, he had to admire their perseverance.

“I mean you—you’re in great shape,” said Prishav, looking a little wild in the eyes now at his continued reluctance, and Baze had to stop himself from bringing a hand to his burning forehead.

“Young friends, you look in the wrong place—”

“Y-yes,” Jax cut in, “and you’re very good—very. Distinguished looking. Everyone thinks so. Um.” Vague concern brushed through Baze’s mind for the alien, who looked close to buckling under the weight of mortification.

He tipped his head back to consider the hangar’s distant rafters, trying not to grin in case they took it for encouragement. They wouldn’t be saying such things a few months ago; he wasn’t sure about himself, but he knew intimately how well Chirrut cleaned up. Both of them had run the fresher’s water rusted brown on their return from Scarif, he had uncovered golden tracks of Chirrut’s skin with his hands and mouth. The last of Jedha’s dirt they carried on their bodies was long gone, washed away by Eadu’s rain as the wave of vengeance had washed away his grief.

Baze wracked his brain for something to excuse himself with that would spare their feelings, but he couldn’t leave Chirrut up there, deafened with the ear protectors and disorientated without them. A breeze drifted in from the vast mouth of the hangar, bringing the damp scent of Yavin’s forest. Yes. Far too humid a planet. The sweat on his exposed nape would have evaporated by now, on Jedha.

Time to bite the bullet. He’d sacrifice their close-held privacy just this once, to save his neck.

“I am—” he said, but he never got the chance to finish with _‘married to that man up there’_ , because three things happened in quick succession.

First: Prishav swayed further into him, with the thirsty look in her eyes of a drunk spying kegs in the desert. She reached for his face, saying, “You have _incredible_ hair too, how do you keep it so soft—”

Second: Baze shied away from her hand, backing into the hull and barely wrangling back a harsh noise from the depths of his throat. _No one_ could touch his hair, no one but—

Third: Chirrut stood up from his perch, earmuffs dangling from one hand, and performed some kind of extravagant, vaulting flip from the wing to land perfectly between the three of them.

A wide, twisted smile cracked across his face as his scarlet robe fluttered and settled to a fallen autumn carpet, pooled around his split-toed boots. Baze snorted.

He said in Jedhan, “Was that necessary?”

“I thought so, yes,” Chirrut replied in Basic.

He had stopped his chanting and Baze hadn’t noticed, it being such a constant background comfort now as opposed to an irritation that sometimes he heard it in his sleep. Over Jax’ startled face Baze could see Bodhi and Skywalker looking over to their little unfolding drama, plus a few other pilots and workers spellbound by Chirrut’s gymnastics. _Wonderful,_  Baze grimaced to himself. _An audience._

Chirrut finished fiddling his echobox back to life, wincing as a nearby crane cranked with a mechanical squeal. Satisfied, he cracked his neck and placed a firmly gentle hand on Prishav’s shoulder, drawing her back. Baze noticed with amusement the flush that spread across her cheeks at the touch, and wondered if she was already one of Chirrut’s captivated students that crowded out the Rebel practice rooms whenever Chirrut stripped to the waist. She would be soon, by the looks of it.

“Excuse me,” Chirrut said sunnily, “I couldn’t help but overhear, and I do agree.” He pressed closer to Baze’s side.

“What are you doing?” Baze muttered, still in Jedhan.

“Making things kyber-clear, dearest,” Chirrut shot back in kind, his strong Southern accent spiking through deliberately.

Baze rolled his eyes. Chirrut wasn’t a jealous bastard (after so many years and their proclivity towards proposing more marriage after every brush with death, the notion was laughable) but he was a possessive one. Jax’ eyes were darting between them, a look of dawning horror on their face. Prishav was still staring at Chirrut, at the dangerously low vee of the collar where the starbird pendant framed his defined chest. Baze couldn’t really blame her. Chirrut was a much different animal up close, prowling and radiating strength, as opposed to poised and serene.

“You don’t need to do that,” Baze said, low. He was grown man, not a bone for wolves to fight over, and he was starting to become irritated.

Chirrut only grinned, pink gums above wolf’s teeth.

“Oh, but I do,” he replied. Switching to rueful Basic, gleefully false, he tilted his ear to Jax and said, “Baze is awfully particular about who touches his hair. A shame, you’ll agree, since it is magnificent—”

Chirrut reached for a braid to toy with, and came up empty. With a little frown he followed the line of Baze’s throat, his grinding jaw, skiffing an ear, until—

Until he found Baze’s mane, drawn up into a messy tail away from the back of his neck. Chirrut’s breath stuttered and stopped in his throat, before exhaling all in a rush. Baze closed his eyes. It had grown much longer in the back, so he had tied it up, all of it, including the braids Chirrut had washed thoroughly and rewrapped for him, with the sacred song whispered close between their mouths the entire time. And now…

He should have known. All he’d wanted was to work on the damn ship.

Chirrut cleared his throat, and his fingers trailed deftly along Baze’s hairline, smoothing back to grab a gentle hold of the tied hair. Baze could almost feel him vibrate. If Chirrut still had pupils, they’d have been dilated like a shark’s sensing blood in the water.

“It’s magnificent,” Chirrut repeated, his voice hoarse and deeper than usual, but still steady. Chirrut knew how to control himself, at least in front of other people. He had spent his entire life training to control himself, his body’s reactions, his mind’s focus, and the knowledge that all Baze had to do to shake that control apart was _this?_ Well, Baze would be lying if he said it didn’t still give him a pulsing little rush of power, even if he did currently feel like a pet felinx, with all this undignified petting. He hadn’t even thought about it when he was tying it back.

Baze suddenly remembered where they were, and looked quickly down at Jax, ears flattened in shame, or embarrassment, and staring resolutely at their boots. Prishav just looked thoughtful, worrying at her lower lip and considering Chirrut’s hand, which was scratching lightly at the loose hairs trailing at Baze’s nape, where the visible Guardian tattoo swirled a frame around his top vertebrae. Baze would _not_ shiver. They were already creating spectacle enough. Bodhi was still looking over at them, confusion ticking through his soulful brown eyes.

“Chirrut,” said Baze, “you can stop now.”

Chirrut was looking a little dazed himself, his fingers tangling in the ponytail, letting the clean strands run through and over his knuckles. “Hmmm?” he hummed. The hand still holding his staff was going lax.

“ _Chirrut.”_

The warning in his voice snapped Chirrut out of himself, and he blinked before quickly cocking his head this way and that.

“No emergencies?”

Baze stared at him. “Oh no, no you don’t—”

Chirrut beamed up at nothing, his hand flexing and releasing rhythmically around his staff. He said, “Excuse us, friends, I need a word with my husband in private, thank you.”

With that, he strode purposefully away, dragging Baze along behind him by the wrist. He was sweeping his staff in great arcs before him, and Baze barely heard Prishav’s panicked yelp of, “Husband?!” over the sound of himself grunting apologies to every annoyed person Chirrut caught in the legs.

“I can’t _believe_ you,” he hissed in Chirrut’s ear, gently diverting him before he bashed his forehead on the outstretched wing of a fighter jet. “You think us still teenagers?”

Chirrut only smiled, the inscrutable kind of smile he pulled on travellers to make them believe he had access to the secrets of the stars. He tugged harder as they rounded the corner away from the hangar, winding a path through the stream of bodies towards the barracks.

Down here the light was artificial, and the flickering, solar-powered bulbs lit a sheen along the crimson folds of silk, cinched at Chirrut’s sinuous waist and casting fiery reflections under his jawline. He looked like a black-hole god, hellbent on lust, gilded and underlit by his flames. If it were anyone else Baze would yank his arm back and take theirs along with him, snatched out of the socket, but then—it would never be anyone else.

They passed by Jyn and Cassian as they were emerging from the mess hall, both of them laughing at something and looking at once surprised and uncomfortable to be doing so. They stopped short as Chirrut barged forward without pausing, narrowly missing one of Jyn’s crutches on his crusade.

“What’s happening?” Cassian demanded, steadying Jyn and fixing them both with a severe look. Baze felt a flare of guilt—Cassian had been fighting the same fight as the Guardians for just as long, since he was a _child,_  no less, and Baze could often see the fraying fuse of paranoia behind the captain’s competent eyes. It reminded Baze of himself, but he had only become such a man once he was fully grown. He and Chirrut had at least had certain, ordered childhoods.

“We’re fine, Captain, do not worry,” Baze grumbled over his shoulder. “Chirrut is being a fool, _again._ ”

He didn’t see them exchange knowing looks, but he did hear the faint strains of Jyn’s, “Where did he get that robe?” as he and Chirrut made it to their corridor.

A reluctant laugh did find its way out from his chest while he watched Chirrut fumble with the room key, after he had already miscounted and tried to open their neighbour’s door.

“You could _help,_ ” Chirrut sniped, which only made Baze laugh harder.

“And miss you tripping over your own libido? Not likely.”

Chirrut made a triumphant noise when the lock finally pinged to green, and grabbed again for Baze’s wrist, already helpfully outstretched for him. Baze barely had time to flick the wall powercells on before he was pulled bodily to slam up against Chirrut’s front, pinning his husband to the wall.

“Unbelievable,” he said, but it was muffled by Chirrut pulling him in by the back of his head to kiss hungrily at his mouth without preamble, fingers grasping scorches at the bare back of his neck and up, up, to pull hard on the gentle curls that hung loose around his ears.

Chirrut snarled into the kiss and hugged Baze tighter to him, crushing himself back against the door. “Is it, though? Unbelievable?”

“That you’re still sent charging like a randy bull bantha at the thought of a hair tie, yes, Chirrut, it’s unbelievable.”

Chirrut drew back quickly from where he had unsuccessfully been wrestling with Baze’s knotted jumpsuit, and Baze breathed a little easier. He was still _irritated,_ and amused, and becoming aroused despite himself, so all in all it was simply another day of blissful matrimony. He darted in for a swift, licking kiss at Chirrut’s plush lower lip to further distract him. He liked to keep his eyes open when they kissed sometimes, if not to make sure Chirrut wasn’t overloading himself, then just to watch the pretty flush that stole over those high cheekbones he knew so well, and loved so much.

Tilting his head thoughtfully, Chirrut said, “You don’t really think that.”

Slowly, he gripped Baze’s wrists hard enough to hurt, and placed them very deliberately to bracket his own waist. Baze gave over use of his hands, let Chirrut exert the pressure he wanted until he felt the slight bend of ribs under his touch. Chirrut would bruise himself, through Baze, through silk.

“Don’t I?” It was a silly question; Chirrut always either knew, or was convinced he did.

“No. You wanted this to happen,” Chirrut said, nodding at him. Baze felt increasingly drunk on the feel of hot muscle under silk, hypnotised by Chirrut’s low cadence into believing. He looked down and saw the strands of red silk spinning into black under the oil-stained spiders of his fingertips. “Tying your hair up, you know what that means—”

“I was _working_ —”

Chirrut shook violently, a defiant tremor raking through him as he pulled Baze harder, pushed the air from himself with a gasp. “No love, you know what it means.” He smiled and it lit up his eyes in radiant sunlight on ice. Baze began to melt with it.

“Alright, I know. It’s been a long time and I forgot, are you happy? And for the record, I _was_ working,” he said, and leaned all his weight into pinning Chirrut further into the door. Chirrut finally released his wrists with a happy sigh, and went back to cupping his jaw, and the hot, bare back of his neck.

“You never did so at home, not for many years now,” Chirrut murmured.

 _At home._ It took an age to settle Chirrut into new routines, but once he was, breaking him out of them was like excavating a fossil, crystallised in kyber.

Baze pressed his forehead to Chirrut’s temple, kissing his cheek. “It is safe to leave my throat exposed, here,” he whispered into Chirrut’s ear. “Safe enough to leave our rooms without armour.” He pressed forward until they were the same body, not a sliver of light between them, and Chirrut pulled on his ponytail until their lips aligned too. “Did you miss it, chickadee?”

A throaty laugh burst its way out from Chirrut and into Baze’s mouth, and he straddled Baze’s thigh until Baze took the hint, shoving it up between folds of silk for Chirrut to sit on, to ride.

“Could they see your tattoo?” Chirrut asked, quiet and sly.

Baze stared down between them at the erotic shift of Chirrut’s robes, the dips of muscle outlined under the layers of fabric. Silently he cursed the rough-spun texture of his jumpsuit. To feel that against his bare skin—

“ _Baze._ ” Chirrut gave a sharp tug to his ear.

“Ow, what?”

Chirrut’s face was carefully blank, though his hips still dragged his erection up and down Baze’s thigh. “Could they see it?” he asked again, and Baze had forgotten this was part of the game. He sighed, but he rubbed his thumbs soft against Chirrut’s taut sides as he did so. “All of them in this entire base, could they see your tattoo?”

Chirrut splayed a hand wide over Baze’s face to check unnecessarily for lies, and snickered when Baze kissed his palm.

“Yes, beloved, they could all see it.”

“Hmm.”

Chirrut’s face tilted up to Baze’s, brushing the tip of his scrunching nose along the seam of Baze’s lips. A white hot sphere of annoyance still sank into the pit of Baze’s gut, wound tighter by Chirrut’s teasing, aimless nonsense until it burned from the friction. He should be used to this by now, but this wasn’t a mood that gripped Chirrut often.

Chirrut went abruptly limp in his arms, trusting Baze’s thigh shoved between his legs to keep him upright against the door. He was hastily untying the straps of his bandolier, the ones that kept the echobox in place. When he reached to help, all Baze received for his troubles was a smack to the hand.

“And so,” Chirrut said, a sharpness stabbing through his voice, “I am still the only person here never to have seen your tattoo.”

Baze pulled a face, and caught the echobox to set it aside before it could clatter to the floor. “Not true,” he said thoughtfully. If Chirrut was going to be difficult, why should Baze miss out? They wouldn’t slide together so sweetly, so right, if it weren’t for these rough, sanding edges. “You’re not the only blind person on base.”

Chirrut bared his teeth at him, and pulled hard enough on Baze’s tied braids for his scalp to shoot sparks of pain down his spine, turning hot and winding before they reached his hips.

“But I’m the only person who gets to touch it, aren’t I?” And Baze knew Chirrut meant all of it, the tattoo, the hair, the rest—and still he knew Chirrut wasn’t jealous.

The Whills taught some measure of self-denial. In their twenties, Chirrut had even tried a month of ascetic abstinence from all fleshly pleasures, before deciding he missed sugared cashews and getting fucked too much to continue. But he was stubborn, he was the most stubborn person Baze had ever known and by the gods, he loved him for it. Not, however, when they came to a head like this, with Chirrut aping something as ridiculous as jealousy because he refused to ask for what he really wanted.

Baze shoved his leg up harder, knocking a sharp breath from Chirrut, wrapped around a moan. The pilots had been right; he had been training more, and he relished the tight grip of Chirrut’s long, beautiful hands on his upper arms, and the way they couldn’t wrap anywhere close to all the way around.

Baze would give him what he wanted, he always did. But he would make Chirrut wish he had _specified._

Chirrut seemed to sense the shift in him, and a bright grin streaked across his face like a comet tail. He hiked his leg up around Baze’s waist where they were standing and rolled, a tightly controlled wave of muscle that began somewhere at the sweaty strip of his exposed chest, ending with a hard grind of his silk-covered cock to Baze’s hip.

Looking down, a gleaming flash of skin caught Baze’s eye and he reached for the leg hooked tight around him. He pushed back the waterfalls of heavy satin until he found the treasure; Chirrut was bare under his robe. Miles and miles of corded leg muscle, naked but for the light fur of dark hair on his shins and the soft split boots he wore for sparring. Not even a hint of the linen smalls he usually wore. Baze grit his teeth. Chirrut smiled, as serene as a crocodile waiting open-mouthed for the foolish, trusting bird to pick its teeth clean.

“So,” Baze said, pushing the fabric back until he had a handful of Chirrut’s ass, “you fall to pieces in front of the whole hangar, drag me from my work because of my hair, and you’re the one parading around nearly naked?”

He shoved Chirrut into the door with his bulk, and lapped at his mouth until Chirrut stopped biting his own lip.

“It’s warm here,” Chirrut panted against him, thrusting needily along Baze’s thigh, sending achy pulses through Baze’s hips to lick at the base of his hardening cock. “It’s a warm planet.”

“So you’ve mentioned.” Baze fit his other hand under Chirrut’s robe to grab at the backs of his thighs, lifting him clear off the ground and turning to heave him onto the bed, ignoring Chirrut’s yelp.

“Watch your back!” Chirrut snapped as he wriggled further onto the sheets, and Baze had to stifle a laugh.

“Why, when I’ve got you to do it for me? It’s not my fault you’ve gotten heavier,” said Baze, kneeling at the edge of the bed and prying Chirrut’s legs apart.

It wasn’t strictly true; Yavin IV had been good to Chirrut, with rest and regular meals stacking on the muscle mass the Empire’s hungry claws had stolen from him, back on Jedha. Plus, Jyn had accused Baze of being something called a ‘feeder’, which Baze didn’t care for. There was nothing wrong with providing for one’s husband.

“It’s not my fault you’re an old man with a bad back,” Chirrut retorted, propped on his hands and grinning down at him with a giddy flush on his face that smoothed away the worried creases.

“It’s not my fault you love it.” Baze took a moment to look at Chirrut, his bare legs sprawled with the middle panel of his robes still preserving his dwindling modesty, tented over his crotch. Chirrut was too distracting, Baze was supposed to be teaching him a lesson, supposed to be annoyed. He _was_ annoyed, he realised. Chirrut was haring in circles again, and Baze meant to trap him. “And watch your own damn back, you’re not the one in charge right now.”

Chirrut grumbled something about loving him _absolutely_ being Baze’s fault, but it stuttered into silence when Baze ripped aside the last swathe of fabric and seized hold of his hips. He was like one of the old temple murals, Baze thought as he leaned slowly up into Chirrut’s space. Dark gold on red, a gemstone myth, or the warning iridescence of a poisonous little amphibian.

“Lie down,” he growled.

With a soft _whump,_ Chirrut did so immediately, an eagerly self-satisfied smile painted across his face. Baze considered the cock in front of him, bowed up to Chirrut’s covered navel like it was beckoning to him, his foreskin drawn back away from the head.

He leaned in until his lips were barely touching the shaft, and Chirrut’s hands unclenched from the sheets to clasp the back of his neck, sliding over the tattoo and up into the wild bundle of hair.

“What does my hair mean, dear one?” he asked, pitching his voice low and deliberately exhaling hot, humid breath against Chirrut’s prick. He thought of his peaceful work routine, of having a metal problem to puzzle over until his mind fit together like gears should. Of being panted over like a dog in heat, and of Chirrut dragging him out in front of everyone. It wasn’t as if he cared what any of the rebels thought of them; he was far too old for that, and he would never be _truly_ upset by pleasuring Chirrut. No, it was more that even now, Chirrut expected him to drop everything, drop to his knees and suck his dick because apparently his hair was some kind of mating signal.

Admittedly, Baze’s track record for dropping everything and letting Chirrut lead him around by the dick was… damning. Could anyone really blame him, Baze wondered. Could the Force? The universe? He looked at the twitching muscles of Chirrut’s inner thighs, the tempting shelf of his obliques peeking from his robe, practically pointing right at the apex of his need. If the universe was personified, it would want to love Chirrut too.

Chirrut still hadn’t answered him, so Baze bit hard at the meat of his thigh, right down low near his balls, and Chirrut grunted in shock.

“What does it mean, Chirrut?”

“It means—it means I get your mouth,” Chirrut said, his voice wavering. “It means you’re ready for me.”

Baze hummed, close mouthed against the juncture of Chirrut’s thigh and groin, the deep vibrations tearing Chirrut’s exhaled breath to shreds. “Not quite, this time. You’re going to get my mouth, you menace, but you’re going to take everything I give you, alright?”

He glanced up the decadent lines of Chirrut’s body to check on him. Seeing the calculating little pout, the dark slash of his thinking eyebrows, sent a comforting rush of delight through Baze’s stomach, blending with the irritation into something far stronger, far more potent than lust. He felt himself fully harden in the scratchy confines of his jumpsuit.

“Alright,” Chirrut said slowly. “This is unlike you, dearest— _ah!”_

The consent fell from Chirrut’s lips and Baze sprang into action. He surged up and forced Chirrut’s hips down into the mattress, pressing one arm into an iron band across his pelvis, the other flattening to his chest. With his fingers tangling, making a tight leash of Chirrut’s pendant and feeling his heart thunder under his palm, he swallowed Chirrut’s cock down to the hilt.

“ _Nnghk_ —”

Chirrut’s hips flexed uselessly; he was at an awkward angle for leverage and Baze pushed that to his advantage. He gripped at Chirrut’s muscled side and burrowed further between his legs, barely drawing back at all before sliding to the base again, flattening his tongue against the hot weight in his mouth.

His own cock was protesting—the sounds Chirrut was making were enough to make him waver, only for a moment, wonder whether he should simply forget the game and clamber over Chirrut to rut against each other, but—

A harsh cry, snapped off in the middle by the noose knot of control, and Baze pulled off with a loud and obscene slurp.

“What was that?” His own voice sounded hoarse already.

Chirrut shook under him, his strong hands clenched around the arm Baze had pinning his heaving, heaving chest. He seemed to struggle for words, his supple mouth closed but working all the same, and Baze smothered a grin against his knee. His hand felt the huffy little sigh more than he heard it, as Chirrut thumped his head back to the mattress and sluggishly spread his legs wider.

“There we go,” Baze murmured, and licked a broad trail back up Chirrut’s jumping thigh muscle to sink down onto his cock once again.

Baze, for all his broadness and past, was at heart a gentle man. He wasn’t gentle with this, though, or meandering with it. He sucked hard, and released Chirrut’s hip a moment to grab for one of the hands back clenching in the bedclothes. Letting Chirrut’s dick press into the side of his cheek, he yanked on the hand, placing it there to feel the stretch, and Chirrut’s mounting racket hitched higher.

“You,” Chirrut panted, “have been keeping this from— _ah_ —from me, you never, like this, _Baze_ —”

His trembling fingers followed Baze’s face until he had nearly freed Chirrut’s length from his mouth, suckling at the tip. Slick precome was pooling under his tongue, and Baze felt a great and terrible need to leach all the rosy flush from Chirrut’s skin with his mouth. Chirrut traced the seal of his lips, the scruff above them, and slipped a finger in alongside himself. Baze gave a warning noise, but Chirrut was panting from all the little flickers of tongue Baze was giving his swollen head, and wasn’t listening.

Baze pulled off with a pop, and licked up the trail of saliva suspended between his lips and Chirrut’s cock before it snapped. Chirrut made a protesting noise in the back of his throat, his questing hand trying to follow, looking to be sucked. Baze bit at it instead, and it flitted away like a startled, hollow boned bird.

“Nothing goes in my mouth unless I put it there,” Baze informed him, enjoying himself.

Chirrut tried to sit up, but Baze only pressed down harder at his thorax. The silken glide of the robe and that of Chirrut’s sweat-slick chest was becoming harder to differentiate.

“You’ve never been one for—unfair play during sex, my sun, my. My—”

“Shhh…” Baze petted through the wiry pubic hair at Chirrut’s groin. “You think this unfair?”

Chirrut laughed, a little manic, and said, “I know it.”

Baze watched Chirrut’s cock strain and twitch further towards his stomach, watched a bead of precome ooze from the slit and trickle down. He raised his eyebrows and blew a soft puff of air there, and wasn’t surprised at the foot he caught in the gut when Chirrut’s leg jerked.

“See,” Chirrut gasped, “ _see,_ even _I_ see—”

But still he didn’t fight. The aborted little thrusts of his hips were only for show, and Baze would change that.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said, and the whipcrack of Chirrut’s startled laugh was choked into submission, into a broken groan when Baze licked hard at his shaft. He buried his face into it and dragged his tongue up again and again, rocking into it and forcing Chirrut’s hips down with both hands, hard enough to bruise. Chirrut scrabbled at Baze’s bunching shoulders, and he _wailed._

The loose folds of his collar were falling further open and exposing his clenching abs. Baze pressed the heels of his hands into Chirrut’s hipbones when he tried to buck up and thrust into Baze’s mouth, until he was flattened. Every swallow around the thickening shaft in his throat wrung a choking, wanton sound from Chirrut, above him on the bed, every one of them a shout of electricity straight into Baze’s spinal cord, spiralling down his back in shivers to build delicious pressure between his thighs. He made a decision.

Pulling off from Chirrut, he laid a quick kiss to his knee again and stood. He had to be quick in stripping off his jumpsuit, before Chirrut could come back to himself and realise the pressure had relented.

“Giving up… already…?” Chirrut wheezed, limp where Baze left him and staring hazily sightless up at their low ceiling.

Baze yanked off Chirrut’s boots before his own and climbed on the bed, pushing his underclothes down around his thighs where he straddled Chirrut’s hips, his knees stretching the robe underneath them. _This_ , he thought, _you. No wonder I married you._

“You have to stop doubting me,” he said, and leaned all his weight on one hand, bearing down on Chirrut’s sternum. He took his aching cock in the other and sat back on Chirrut’s thighs, holding him still as he jerked himself quick and rough.

“What are you _doing?”_ Chirrut demanded, and he sounded so affronted Baze snorted hard, guffawing deep from his stomach as Chirrut tried and failed to thrust up and dislodge him. Yavin IV had been good to them both.

“I,” said Baze, “am teaching you patience.” He thumbed at the head of his cock, shivering tight contractions coiling through his lower back that pulsed heat through his balls. Making sure he wasn’t touching Chirrut’s prick at all, he bore down his full weight until he could speak into Chirrut’s mouth as he worked himself faster.

He nosed at Chirrut’s jaw where it was grinding, and sucked hard at a spot low on his throat, a spot that would have been covered if Chirrut wore clothes like a normal person. He sucked and bit at the tendons standing out starkly, feeling the blood pool hot under Chirrut’s beautiful golden skin, and the thought of Chirrut going out among their fellows so obviously ravaged had him spilling over his fist. He quickly nudged his cock into the tight space behind Chirrut’s balls and spent there, grabbing a fistful of Chirrut’s hair to sweep a claiming tongue into his mouth, kissing him through his own groans and Chirrut’s stifled complaints.

Chirrut slapped him in the side and clutched at his shirt, though his hands were losing some of their confident strength. He gave up and buried his fingers in Baze’s ponytail again, combing rhythmically through the braids again and again as he tried to keep his harsh gasps inside, without success.

“No one has ever been able to teach me patience,” he rasped. “Not you, not the abbots, and not my grandmother.”

Baze mouthed a sloppy kiss across Chirrut’s flushed, indignant face, pecking him on the nose. “Is it working?” he asked, floating and smug.

Chirrut inhaled slowly, and Baze could recognise the way the breath filled the balloon of frustration behind Chirrut’s cloudy eyes, threatening to burst. He recognised it because it was one of his own expressions, and the fact that he was still rubbing off on Chirrut in such a way despite his blindness sent him chuckling.

“The Force grants me patience when I am in need of it,” Chirrut grit out.

“Oh?” said Baze. “And are you in need of it now? You sound very composed, I think you’ve learned your lesson. You don’t need me any more.” He kissed Chirrut firmly on his swollen, bitten mouth once again, pressing his head back into the rumpled blanket before moving up and off, tucking his softening dick back into his underwear.

“ _No,”_ Chirrut exploded, rearing up from the bed so quickly that the last, valiantly straining tie of his robe came undone and pooled around his hips until he was stark naked.

The red of the silken pond around him matched the red of his blush-hot chest, trickling down to meet his darkly pinkening cock, flushed nearly as deep as the rest of him. Every part of him, the taper of his waist from his broad shoulders, the narrow trail of dark hair spilling from his navel, the vee of his hips, his whole body curled in and focused to the thick core of him. Clearly Baze had cracked that core open, revealing something wanting and needy, but at least he could enjoy Chirrut’s stricken expression. Sometimes Chirrut forgot people could see his face, which was both endearing in moments like this, and completely disastrous during their infrequent attempts at undercover missions.

He dropped to his knees again and they twinged in protest at the return to cold permacrete, but it would be worth it if he could wipe away the cocky expression returning to Chirrut’s face.

“So you admit you’re impatient,” he said ponderously. He slid his hands up Chirrut’s quivering legs, leaving oily streaks in the crystalline sweat. “You admit you acted like a brat, dragging me back here.” Chirrut’s balls were drawn up flush to his body and his cock was flat against his muscled stomach, smearing sticky trails into the hair there. “You admit you were wrong?”

“No, never.” Chirrut smiled crookedly down at him. The smile faltered when Baze returned him to their previous position, restraining his middle, thumbs digging into bone. “I never need to admit anything to you. Nor confess. Those words imply secrets and guilt.”

Baze hummed agreement against the base of Chirrut’s cock, lolling his tongue out to lap up some of his own seed coating the crease of his leg. He let himself follow the trail down, down further until he could taste himself on Chirrut’s taint, slicking the furl of his hole. He hooked his hands under Chirrut’s thighs instead and held him by the hips, linking his fingers together so Chirrut had nowhere to go.

“Baze—Baze I’m not, I’ve sparred since showering—”

Baze shrugged, jostling Chirrut’s legs where they flexed on his shoulders. “Should have thought about that before you went feeling up my hair,” he snarked against musky skin, and plunged his tongue into Chirrut’s entrance.

“Oh, _fuck_ —”

Chirrut writhed on his tongue, his back bowing up in a fruitless attempt to get away from Baze’s assault, but he was held fast and speared open. This was something Baze loved, the way he could fuck into, and kiss the same place on Chirrut’s body, though presently he supposed he was doing both. He was faintly glad he’d already come, since Chirrut’s ragged sobs would surely have had him abandoning any kind of high ground he’d gained in this… this. Whatever they were doing. Getting caught up in Chirrut’s body was an occupational hazard. They were both healthy adults, still stupidly in love with each other and each other’s bad tempers, it was only inevitable that they fucked out their disagreements sometimes.

He pressed the flat of his tongue in a slow, hard push against Chirrut’s opening, the muscle giving way as his husband shuddered above him. Chirrut’s ankles were hooked behind Baze’s head, his toes tangling in the flyaway strands of his ponytail. Baze dug his fingers into Chirrut’s lower belly until he stopped cursing and started moaning again, then slid a finger into his navel to tickle him even more senseless than he was from Baze’s mouth.

“Baze, Baze,” Chirrut made a mantra of his name, and Baze growled low into the dark cleft of him, tickling harder. Now Chirrut was laughing drunkenly, the ridges of his stomach jumping under Baze’s punishing grip. “You’re _horrible_ —”

Baze pulled back and admired the mess he’d made. Chirrut’s asshole was slick with Baze’s come and his spit, open and clenching around the space he’d made with his tongue.

He stuck his first two fingers in his mouth, wincing at the ache in his jaw and the stretch in his lips, and slicked them both.

“This is what you wanted,” he said, and drove his fingers into Chirrut in one, unrelentingly rough thrust, anticipating Chirrut’s full-body spasm at being filled so suddenly.

Chirrut was babbling in South Jedhan, and Baze could only pick up a few frantic words as they tumbled and frothed from his mouth. Words like _fuck you_ and _too much_ and _love you._

“Isn’t this what you wanted, chickadee? Isn’t this what the hair means?”

Baze manhandled Chirrut further back onto the bed from where he’d slipped down towards Baze’s hands, his mouth, his tongue, all of them working to pull out the cocksure fight from Chirrut through his dick. The tip of his middle finger brushed unerringly against the bundle of nerves inside Chirrut, and sent his husband howling.

Chirrut’s cock looked painfully hard by now, and Baze took just a little pity on him. For all this teasing, it was still nothing compared to some of the things Chirrut had done to him. That month of abstinence had been no picnic for either of them. Baze went down on him again, slowly at first until the glide of his lips was made easier when he pulled back a fraction to spit on Chirrut’s glistening head.

“Please,” Chirrut croaked, “please just, Baze.”

“Tell me you wanted this” Baze growled, and screwed his fingers into Chirrut’s prostate.

Chirrut actually yelled, and it had been a long time since Baze had heard that, heard Chirrut let loose with undone pleasure, without worrying about tenement neighbours stomping on their ceiling, or Imperial patrols arresting them for breaching the peace. A bright and glowing sea welled up inside him to extinguish the fizzing, angry ball in the pit of his stomach, and Baze found he needed to hear Chirrut answer.

“ _Yes,”_ the sob came, ripped and desperate from Chirrut’s throat as he hauled at Baze’s hair, and his legs wrapped tight around Baze’s ears as he took him in to the root.

It was a fight, in a way, a horizontal spar in the way that Baze had Chirrut pinned completely to the bed with only his mouth and hands, breathing harshly through his nose as he took Chirrut down his throat over and over, his nose pressing into the thatch of curls and his mouth overflowing with the dampness. Chirrut didn’t make it easy, and as a result of his insistent hands he managed to accidentally loosen the hairtie, and keened at the sensation of Baze’s soft, washed hair spilling over his thighs.

Baze stopped bobbing on Chirrut’s dick and simply held him still in his mouth, letting his jaw slacken.

Chirrut took it as permission that was not granted, and tried a jerky thrust, only to be met with Baze’s big, unyielding hands, grappling him back and forcing the breath from him. Once he was subdued, Baze slapped Chirrut on the flank, none too gently, and pushed the tie into Chirrut’s shaking hand. He had waited this long. He had _wanted_ this, after all.

When Chirrut only lay there gasping for breath, Baze looked up at him from under the tangled curtain of loose hair. Chirrut had his head tilted back as if stargazing, and he chanted in a low, tranced monotone. Baze sighed around his mouthful and gently took Chirrut’s hands in his, let him feel the hairtie before guiding them to his hair.

He let go and slapped playfully at Chirrut again, humming encouragement around his cock, and Chirrut surfaced.

“Oh,” he choked out, “oh for the love of the Force. And they call me maddening.” His hands trembled as they gathered up Baze’s hair as best he could, his breath jolting out of him in surprise whenever Baze crooked his fingers into the hot, clenching core of him without warning. “A- _ah, Baze, there,_ it’s done, just—” He curled over Baze’s head, snapping off the tie and burying his fingers back into the mass of it, messy and lopsided though it was.

Baze only let him for a second; he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into Chirrut’s stomach before knocking him back again.

He rewarded Chirrut with a long, slow suck up the whole length of him, wringing a desperate wail that was sure to reach at least the canteen. He gripped Chirrut’s wrists and pressed them to his stomach, hands over hands, and dived back to undulate his tongue around the thickening pulse of him.

People might be walking past, people who had seen Chirrut fight in solid bolts of lightning. Baze pumped his fingers deep into Chirrut’s hole, the muscles of his rim gripping the knuckles tight, he scissored them wide and Chirrut made a noise like he was being gutted. Scraping over his prostate on every pass, Baze thought of people recognising the honey-smooth fool’s gold in Chirrut’s voice, split open to reveal raw and jagged rock because he was being sucked off and fucked open at once. And they would _know_ , because they went everywhere together and people had to see that they fit together and talked to each other without words and that they were _made_ for each other—

Chirrut came on a punched out, guttural shout, with Baze’s fingers buried inside him up to the knuckle and Baze’s mouth sunk down on him almost far enough to meet his hand. He convulsed where he was caught between the two and came in heavy, salty spurts against the back of Baze’s throat, his noises dragging for longer and longer and louder every time Baze swallowed him down and dipped his tongue into the sensitive slit.

Baze wasn’t finished with him, he decided. Chirrut wanted his mouth, and he was going to take it until he could stand it no longer. A hand flopped into his hair and tugged softly, questioningly, and Baze looked up past the rapid swell of Chirrut’s stomach gulping for breath, to his furrowed eyebrows, the handsome lines that framed his eyes. Baze didn’t let him slip from his mouth.

Instead he just kept sucking, Chirrut staying rigid in the wet heat of his mouth. They weren’t young any more—Chirrut didn’t soften as quickly, but rarely did they manage to go twice in one tumble. Nothing at all like they used to, where the record still stood at four times in one memorable night. It had been midweek, Baze remembered, and Chirrut still maintained it was five times.

He could feel Chirrut juddering beneath him, and sucked more languid and tenderly than before, but still keeping the suction tight.

“Nnn… no,” Chirrut mumbled, sounding punch-drunk. His legs shifted heavily back to life and he pressed his heel to Baze’s spine, his other foot slipping to push Baze away. “Love, enough…”

Baze drew back slowly and held just the cockhead in his mouth. Chirrut’s hands flexed warily on the bedcovers, and Baze held him down once more. He would need to use all his strength, this time.

He kissed the tip of Chirrut’s cock, savouring the final, pathetic blurt of come. He stroked Chirrut’s stomach, sealed his mouth around him, and sucked until Chirrut jerked under him like Baze had stuck a livewire in his ass.

Chirrut bucked at him, trying with all his orgasm-weakened might to throw him off, but even his voice was drained of strength; his cries were strained through his clenched teeth as he kicked and kicked.

“You _bastard,_ ” he choked, “you son of a—Baze!”

Baze frowned. Chirrut had known all of his mothers, and not one of them would have tolerated being used as an insult. They were all married, too. Baze was no bastard. He swirled his tongue around Chirrut’s dick and winced when Chirrut screamed, throaty and wrecked.

“Get off,” Chirrut pleaded with him, “ _please—_ ”

His legs were flailing, his knees clenching around Baze’s head and flexing away, his feet arching in midair when Baze wouldn’t relent. He would though, soon. Chirrut thrashed away from his mouth, but he just needed to beg a little harder.

Hands found his face, and jittered over him, skating around his hollowed cheeks and sweeping over his forehead, imploring in their softness. Baze glanced up and saw a tear slip over the apple of Chirrut’s cheek, his lower lip bitten raw. Chirrut cupped his ears, and he thought he heard the pound of blood from Chirrut’s hands, his wrists, his heartbeat filling Baze’s head as his cock filled his mouth, though it was finally softening.

Chirrut was running his thumbs repeatedly over Baze’s ears, praying to him in broken whispers, “Please love, my lamb, I am yours already, for so long, all my life _please_ you don’t need to—please— _enough_ —”

So Baze released him. He sat up and caught Chirrut’s head as he collapsed back boneless to the bed, the bloody tint of arousal finally seeping from his heaving, sweating body to pool around him in his silks. Baze unfolded his creaking knees and bent to kiss Chirrut thoroughly, giving him their combined tastes and smoothing over the livid bruises on his hips, catching the hitch of breathing with his mouth.

Chirrut groaned wearily into the kiss, his lips and tongue the only moving part of him aside from his twitching fingers. Slowly the twitching spread up the sculpted gold of his arms to the marbling of the stretchmarks at his underarms—new ones over the old where he had piled on strength after Scarif—until Chirrut was clenching his fists hard enough for his shoulders to quake.

“It’s alright,” Baze cooed, ignoring his smarting throat. He stroked down the wild tufts of Chirrut’s hair where he had squirmed against the bed. “It’s over, let me get you your—here it is.”

One of the ammo pouches on Chirrut’s bandolier contained, among other things, a tiny mottled feather, a plain metal ring with inscriptions that matched Baze’s, and a glimmering string of kyber rosary.

This last he pressed into Chirrut’s hand, unclenching his white-knuckled fingers for him so he could snatch the beads close. Baze watched as Chirrut rubbed ferociously at the uncut texture of them, silently pressing them to his forehead and trailing them over the bridge of his nose. They meant nothing special; Baze had found them at a stall years after the temple’s destruction, and rosaries were never used by the Guardians, but Chirrut liked the counting and the dense weight of their Force-imbued power. Baze ducked his head and moved the starbird aside to kiss softly at Chirrut’s chest, mouthing his nipple. He snorted at the wry, exhausted smile he was returned, the barest flash of gum.

He pottered around for a few moments, gathering a washcloth to wipe between Chirrut’s thighs and nudging a spare hydropack into his hand, singing hushedly the whole time. Chirrut titled towards the sound, his head rolling to follow Baze’s place in the room. Eventually he struggled up and drained the hydropack, holding the rosary against the stark bite at the base of his throat.

“Is your hair still tied?” he asked, his voice ragged. He swayed where he sat, but still sat upright and monklike on his throne of red silk.

Baze had just finished pulling his jumpsuit back on, and considered the lovely vision he made, opal eyes glittering violently bright in the amber glow of the room, set in his sun weathered face. Yavin IV really was a warm planet. “Do you think you can control yourself if it is?”

Chirrut smiled right at him, though his gaze pierced Baze’s heart rather than his eyes. Knowing him, it was probably deliberate. “Why should I,” he smirked, “when I’ve got you to do that for me?”

 

Baze still needed to work and Chirrut insisted on coming back with him, promising not to interrupt this time.

“What if other people interrupt,” he said blearily, letting Baze wrap him up in his robe again. “What if more people flirt with you?” Baze huffed and tightened the sash, planting a kiss to Chirrut’s temple. There was still a tuft of hair at the back of Chirrut’s head that refused to lie flat, and he looked hilariously like a great rumpled cockerel.

"I still don't know why they'd choose me over you," he said.

Chirrut's disbelieving snort was flattering, and Baze squeezed his tender hips. "They think me a celibate monk," Chirrut hissed. He caught his tongue between his teeth and smiled wildly. "Not worth the trouble. Baze. What if I can't defend your honour this time?"

“Then I suppose we know what happens, don’t we?” Baze replied. He kissed him again, lingering at the corner of his full, sex-bitten mouth.

“Hmm.”

“Don’t ‘hmm’ me.”

Chirrut pushed away his bandolier and his staff, opting instead to hook a hand into Baze’s belt and let himself be towed along. He even started up his old clicking habit, bouncing the noises off the walls until Baze shushed him, irritably.

Baze had no idea how much time they’d spent arguing, but Jyn and Cassian seemed to be heading back _into_ the canteen, with some other young rebels, and Bodhi sandwiched between them. As soon as they came into view, Bodhi and Jyn’s faces coloured twin violent shades of red, and the captain avoided looking at anyone.

Baze stomped past, Chirrut wobbling along behind him. Jyn hurriedly shuffled her crutches out of the way.

Bodhi, predictably, was the only one to speak up. “Is he—I mean, are you alright, Chirrut?”

“We’re fine,” Baze called, without looking back. “Chirrut apologises for before.”

“I do not,” Chirrut said, but it lacked bite. Even if he had been his usual part-gleefully cryptic, part-acerbic self, the dazed, ridiculous grin on his face would have ruined it.

They wound their way back to Prishav and Jax’ ship, and Baze was only slightly crestfallen to see the Force, or _something,_ hadn’t fixed it for him. Movement caught his eye and he spotted Prishav’s pretty, sheepish face poking from a nearby cockpit, watching them both.

 _I am_ so _sorry,_ she mouthed, and Baze huffed a laugh, giving her an awkward salute. His tools were all back in the right order, at least.

He turned and disentangled Chirrut’s grip on his belt only for him to reroute his poking and prodding back into Baze’s hair. Baze stole a quick kiss to hide his laughter at the perfectly raised eyebrow. Even blown out of his mind, Chirrut was still able to pass judgement.

“Not a word,” he muttered. “Here’s your earmuffs.”

“Hmm.”

“And your goggles. Sit on the ground, you’ll brain yourself if you climb—” but Chirrut was already clambering up onto his lookout.

Baze sighed as Chirrut crossed his still-bare legs and crooked a moonbow grin down at him. At least now he was wearing underwear. He went back to work.


End file.
